


Changing of the Guard

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Jinx [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Growing Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charon and the Lone Wanderer aren't friends. But she doesn't always grasp that distinction.</p>
<p>(An alternative explanation for why Charon does not rescue the LW from Raven Rock.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing of the Guard

One shot at close quarters with a shotgun, precise as any surgeon.

Ahzrukhal’s face explodes in a blossom of bone and goo and grey matter. A spatter of gore strikes across Charon’s cheek, and he turns impassively to his new employer.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

“Holy _shit!_ ” she exclaims instead, eyes bulging. “What the _fuck_ was that?!” There is no fear in those sky-blue eyes, only incredulous shock. While he has heard only good reports through the radio, this does nothing to confirm his new employer’s sanity.

“Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract, I was honor bound to do as he commanded.” Her gaze drops, drawn to the tattered piece of paper in her hands like iron to a lodestone as he continues. “But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting rat. And now, for good or ill, I serve you.”

“Your honor—“ She swallows, oblivious to the muffled gasps and suppressed screams of the shocked ghouls running behind them, away from the drinking hole that has suddenly become a murder scene. “I am… well. Please. I try to act with honor as well, and if you think we will ever be in conflict—tell me.” A shaky look, from Charon to what remains of Ahzrukhal, and she gives a weak smile. “ _Please_.”

He had dared to allow himself hope of someday being free of Ahzrukhal, and examines the teenaged girl in front of him with wary eyes. Years have taught him the dangers of hope, but she wears her heart on her sleeve, all bumbling good intentions and eager to please. He had sized her up from the moment she entered the Ninth Circle, weeks ago—small. Undersized, but not malnourished. Bright eyes, good teeth, fortunate with her upbringing. She has never known want or deprivation. Quiet, sly hands, always in motion like flapping birds, using their very flamboyancy to disguise how deft they can be. No danger in an open fight, but clever hands and eyes, the sort that should be watched lest small items mysteriously ‘disappear’ in their wake.

And despite his wariness, her clever hands and eyes had only been at work doing odd jobs about Underworld, assisting Winthrop with his repairs and supposedly cracking hostile terminals on her adventures about the Wasteland.

And earning outlandish praise from that verbose radio announcer.

Her dog sits behind her, tail thumping the ground as he cocks his head to the side, giving that peculiarly foolish look that most dog owners find endearing. But Charon knows better. That dog—Dogmeat, she had called it?—had not even flinched when he drew his gun and blasted Ahzrukhal’s brains across the bar. Like him, the dog is accustomed to sizing up threats. The dog knew his limits, even if his new employer does not.

“I have heard of your exploits. It is not always easy to be good in this world, but I am glad someone is.” The praise tastes strange across his lips, each syllable cracking dry flesh.

“You have…? Oh.” She grins foolishly, like a child who still squirms with delight at the smallest scrap of affection. “The radio, that’s right. Um. Three Dog calls me a lot of things, but my name is Jinx. I hope we can be friends.”

He is never ‘friends’ with his employers, but he nods. At least he can acknowledge her hope.

* * *

 

They learn their ways about each other, cautious and slow. He speaks rarely, his motions precise, obeying her when she issues an infrequent command couched as a request. Sometimes, he wishes—though that word may be too strong for the vague, gnawing irritation at each attempt to soften her hold on his contract, each feeble attempt to line the chains with velvet—that she would dispense with the formalities, viewing him as the tool and weapon that he is.

When she says “Do you mind covering me on the left?” he listens past the mealy-mouthed statement to the pith: “Cover me on the left.” When she circles back, all hesitancy as she passes him yet another battered weapon, a hunting rifle worth less than its weight in parts or the miscellaneous odds and ends—lawnmower blades, a near-empty motorcycle gas tank, a lunchbox—that she scrounges like a rodent thrust in human form, she asks “Do you mind…?” and he mutely accepts, knowing that she would crumple under the weight if she carries it alone.

Not to say that she is all demands. She does try, although ‘try’ is such a feeble word for the vigor she brings into her attempts at conversation, wheedling and joking and trying to elicit whatever scraps of history he feels like sharing. Which is little.

It is no matter.

For all her stealth, the easy way she slips into shadows to circle around an enemy’s position, she is a girl who cannot abide silence. If they were silent, perhaps at least they could imitate the easy camaraderie that comes so naturally to those who have spoken their fill and whose words are as known to each other as the shape of the other’s lips. But silence rustles through her, chilling her to the bone. So she uses constant chatter to stitch together a patchwork of thoughts and anecdotes, crafting a flimsy cloak to cover her shivering uncertainty and the ragged edge of pain beneath each too-bright smile and silver laugh. And when that’s not enough to mask her fears, she sneaks into the Mentats. Oh, she wouldn’t _say_ it’s for the security, she would claim it’s to sharpen her wits and help her think clearly, but he recognizes the way she trembles when the withdrawal hits. Laughter, chatter, chems—all the little ways she tries to hide, but never enough because no matter where she hides, she always finds herself.

Those are all the words he’ll never say.

Instead, they get lost in the one-sided conversations.

She is… selfish may be the wrong word. She is generous to a fault, giving bottles of clean water to the beggars outside Megaton and Rivet City, shrugging off their gratitude with a wry smile and a crinkle at the corners of her eyes.

“I can always get pure water from Wadsworth,” she says simply, flicking her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Besides, the rads help me heal.”

Not that Charon had asked. That had simply been her response to a disbelieving guard who had witnessed her thoughtless act of charity. Loping away from the settlement, using quick strides to make up for the short steps her height (or lack thereof) forces her to take, she feels the need to explain that last statement.

“I’m not…” She pauses, biting her lower lip and making a face. It makes her look even younger than her nineteen years. ” I’ve heard ghouls can heal better with radiation. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Neat.” And she really does sound fascinated, tucking that tidbit of information away like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. “But I did a series of, ah, experiments for Moira. Got a couple of neat mutations out of it. One of ‘em is healing better with radiation.” She sticks out her tongue, making a ‘bleh’ noise in the back of her throat. “I can still die when it gets too high, don’t get me wrong, but… it’s kinda neat, as perks go.”

So she is not selfish. But she is self-centered, caught in her own short-sightedness and a constant struggle between what she _wants_ and what she feels she _ought_ to do. His code is simple, albeit constrained by the terms of his contract. Ahzrukhal had been an anomaly, though. Most of his employers failed to cross his lines. He rather doubts Jinx ever will, her altruism and blinding ‘need’ to do what’s right shackling her almost as firmly as the terms of his contract.

Not that she may ever understand. Occasionally, he catches her puzzling over the scrap of paper, but doubts she can read it. It had been an old language, old even before the war, and he…

…his thoughts slide off that path, like water slipping from a razor.

Finally, one night while sitting downstairs in her Megaton home and studying the paper, copying fragments with a pencil stub onto a notepad salvaged from a long-abandoned office, she asks,

“Charon? Can you tell me… what does your contract _say_?”

He had wondered how long until she finally sought help. She made it as far as nine days, thirteen hours, and approximately fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, he can only give her the same response as his other employers.

He _knows_ his contract, his obligations and his duties. They are like the bones beneath his skin, but how does one _explain_ their beating heart and the blood in their veins?

Not that he says this.

Instead, he speaks a rote list of duties, of his services in combat and the ways his employer may restrict or allocate responsibilities and freedoms. But it’s a skeleton without flesh, and she does not truly _understand_. She tries, he can see it in her eyes, but he also sees the glazed look and her parted lips, the way she chews the inside of her cheek as her hands twist through Dogmeat’s fur, seeking comfort in the familiar.

“Could I ever set you free?”

She is not the first to ask this question, and it brings the familiar dull burn of resentment.

“No,” he growls in response. Because if any of this should penetrate that thick skull, it’s that he is not _property_ , he is an _employee_. He is what he is, and to break the contract would be to strip his identity. (And as the redness hovers about the edges, he tries to remember other things, cleansing things, like water playing over knife-sharp edges. Crystal memories and computer simulations blurring together in long-ago training from before he became a ghoul, before the contract…)

But that is another time, another place. He simply looks at her, trying to see if she understands. Her face is tilted away and her eyes peek shyly, like an old world ghost staring out through this sunbaked and chap-lipped little wanderer. “I don’t really know… I am your employer, yeah? But not—“ She speaks quickly, as if trying to force the words past her clumsy mouth, letting them tumble like stones. “I don’t _own_ you. You are—you’re my companion, you know? You’re a friend. If anything happens—if at any point you think I’m not doing the right thing, if I’m not following in my father’s footsteps—please let me know. I want to do better. I want to _be_ better. I have to be.”

Painfully earnest. Young. Childish.

She does not _have_ to do anything. She merely thinks she does, shriveling like a neglected plant under the long shadow that her father still casts.

If she _had_ to fight injustice wherever she saw it, she would have freed Gob long ago. One ghoul from a bar should be just as valid as another.

But she chose him.

* * *

 

“Okay, we’re going to Anchorage Memorial. I’ve fought mirelurks a couple times before, and those can be nasty. I figure the easiest way is to slip in with a few Stealth Boys, find the nest, drop the device, and then swim on out,” she says briskly, rubbing her hands together in childish glee. “Any suggestions? Comments?” Her grin is dazzling, glittering like a promise.

It seems viable enough, he supposes. Without seeing the Memorial’s layout, he can make few other suggestions. Though a whispering doubt tickles his ear. For all her bravado, Jinx lived in a vault for most of her life. She has spent only a few months in the Capital Wasteland, and there are a few very basic skills she still does not know; how to crack radscorpion shell to get to the meat within, or how to build a campfire without a lighter. So even though it seems trivial, even though it seems ridiculous, because she _asked_ him to speak up and she even seems as if she genuinely appreciates his input, rather than the token efforts at inclusivity that previous employers attempted, he asks,

“Do you know how to swim?”

She blinks at him, shrugging. “I’ve been in water before. No big deal.”

“Can you _swim_?” he repeats. He exhales, mentally counting to three. This would be easier if she simply gave him the observation device and sent him in with the Stealth Boys, but he knows her. Even if he were a mere errand boy, she feels protective—protective, and _that’s_ a ridiculous thought, that a girl who only a few months ago had done nothing more war-like than taking potshots at radroaches thinks that she needs to protect a man who has been fighting and surviving for the better part of two centuries—but she feels protective of him, and wishes to ensure his skin remains intact.

* * *

 

That had been a source of argument, actually. Or at least as much argument as can exist under the terms of the contract. That yao guai had been charging, and she was fumbling with her hunting rifle, trying to reload it while five hundred pounds of angry mutated bear runs down like an Old World locomotive…

There is no need for her to order him. He acts on practiced routine, placing his employer’s welfare above his own as he steps between her and the beast. Dogmeat’s snarling, barking, harrying the monster but his fangs are unable to bite deep enough to do more than slow the yao guai down. With one back-handed swipe, it sends the dog flying through the air. But that brief slowing is enough as Charon aims and fires.

Even point-blank, a yao guai can shrug off a shotgun blast. If he had more time, perhaps he could have gotten its eyes, but this was a mere distraction, getting its attention on him rather than his employer. Its claws rake his chest, shredding his leather armor and gouging deep as he hisses, breath rasping past withered lips while twisting to the side. Fully enraged, it remains focused on him as he backs up, giving Jinx a chance to finally reload and fire at the base of its skull.

He feels pride, of sorts. His employer is not entirely inept.

Then she lays one hand on her hip, ripping into him with jewel-bright eyes and snarling lips. “What were you _thinking_?”

“I was protecting you,” he replies, stoic in the face of this unexpected onslaught.

“I did not _ask_ you to. I do not need you to _protect_ me!” The words are spat like venom, brows knitted together in an uncharacteristically dark expression. There are storms in those eyes, thundering darkness just barely kept in check. “I need… I need a _companion_. Not someone who will _attempt suicide_ just to keep my stupid hide alive!”

“You are my employer.” The repetition is a litany of sorts, a way of keeping his fraying temper in check.

“ _You don’t get to make decisions about what’s best for me_.” The rifle dangles in one hand, her other clenched so tight that her nails leave crescent bites on her palm. “You’re not my _dad_.”

He knows she misspoke as soon as she blanches, hand flying up to cover her mouth and shove the words back in. But it’s too late.

All he can do is stay silent.

“I… I’m sorry. That was—that was too much. I mean, it was. Just don’t—don’t risk your life again to save me. I’m not worth it. I’m not worth that.”

He allows her to babble on, trying to use her silly words to cover the gaping wound she just revealed. He knows her fear. He knows her weakness. But she is his employer, and he will allow her to salvage her shattered pride.

“My duty is to serve you in battle. And there may be times when it is necessary—“ he begins, already aware of the flaw in her hasty command.

“ _No_.”

The flaw gnaws at him, the knowledge that she has made herself terribly vulnerable with that ill-conceived order. If she can even acknowledge to herself that it was an order. He wants to correct it, to lay it back in place so that he can operate at maximum efficiency, but she is stubborn, and he is patient. There will be time to address it.

Instead, he says, “Value yourself. Quit the Mentats.”

* * *

 

Remembering her pride, her obstinacy and her crippling altruism even as he saved her from a mauling, he repeats the question.

“Do you know how to swim?” Slowly, trying to remember she is still a child at heart, he attempts to rephrase it. “In water so deep you cannot touch the bottom?”

Scowling, chin jutting with ill-placed determination, she says, “I’ll figure it out.”

He does not frown. Frowning is too obvious, and he has had years of experience in masking any true opinion. But he does feel his lips twitch. “This is important. If you cannot swim, this is an ill-advised adventure.”

“Then teach me.” A pause, and with guilt-bright eyes, she stares up helplessly. “Please.”

He would have done it even without the please.

* * *

 

So the next day finds them at Wilhelm’s Wharf, Jinx dropping her belongings at Grandma Sparkle’s little shack and paying a handful of caps for the old lady to keep an eye out. To Charon’s critical eye, the woman looks as if she is quite comfortable with her .32 hunting rifle, but he still keeps a combat knife strapped to his wrist when he strips down to his boxers and grimy tank top. Jinx does the same, not even bothering with turning away to preserve whatever modesty she might still harbor.

Not that it bothers him. In the privacy of her own house, she has little concern for nudity taboos, and he is accustomed to seeing her wander downstairs for a late night snack while wearing just a thin camisole and gray briefs. Despite the amount of skin and scars on display—and her scars do not impress him the way they might a starry-eyed fan who only listens to her exploits through the radio—she is comfortable as breathing, and so child-like he can’t even imagine anything sexual in it. Nor does she appear to take any particular pride or shame in her body, so without ever truly discussing it, she spends most of her time in the Megaton house running around in her underwear.

But today, as she strips down to her boxers and threadbare white top, he shakes his head. It is a small gesture, but she catches it like a scavenger diving for a crumb.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your shirt.”

She cocks one eyebrow, arms crossed defensively in front of her. Slim and wiry, she could easily be mistaken for a young boy from a distance, especially when she postures like this. “Never bothered you before.”

“White cloth turns transparent when wet.”

Jinx blinks at him, and then her tongue clicks and she says ‘ _oh!_ ’ with that tiny, self-deprecating laugh that has become so familiar. “Yeah. Didn’t think of that.” It’s just another moment before she pulls out a black shirt, sliding it over her tank top and still shaking her head. “You really are a bodyguard,” she drawls, winking outrageously and blustering to cover the way her cheeks flush. This is not the first time she has flirted, but he ignores it like he does all her many quirks and peccadillos. Despite the easy way she touches and leans, reaching for a casual embrace or inflicting her affection upon any who will hold still, he suspects she is woefully inexperienced with physical intimacy.

If she weren’t, she may not hold to Gob so tightly, or would have caught the way the ghoul melts with each thoughtless touch.

The rest of the swimming lesson goes smoothly. She dog-paddles determinedly, Dogmeat splashing beside her and panting his joy. There is no grace or elegance to her movement, but she learns the basics of how to float, how to move, how to cup her hands and shape her kicks to be more efficient. An awkward, flailing creature she is, but with every stroke she becomes less likely to drown.

There is still no truly efficient way to teach her to fight in the water though, and _definitely_ no way of teaching her to fight a mirelurk in its own element. It’s a good thing she has enough sense to rely on stealth when infiltrating the Anchorage Memorial.

Still… watching her splash, sending sparkling drops through the air and giggling as they form ripples in the water, he can’t help thinking of lost innocence, of prewar children paddling through public swimming pools. Watching her is like seeing a newborn chick peeping out of the egg, stumbling but joyously getting up again for the novelty of the sensation.

But she is meant for more.

Not _designed_ , crafted like he was to follow a certain path through life, but self-propelled.

If only she can recognize that means she has a _choice_.

* * *

 

They circle about the stone steps surrounding the half-submerged Memorial, Jinx humming under her breath as she gives each door a brief handshake. There is a method to her madness, or so she claims; any unlocked doors have already been used by the ‘lurks or whatever other travelers have tried to probe the murky depths of the breeding ground, so their best chances of going in undetected to the egg chambers must lie through some locked door on the lower levels.

It is not a terrible plan, he supposes.

At least she turned off her Pip-Boy, allowing him to savor the silence of the wastes. Though he spots movement, a sandy-haired man approaching with a haggard expression and a shotgun loosely held by his side. Charon growls deep in his throat, but Dogmeat simply barks in greeting. Jinx glances up, her hair falling over one eye as she straightens up.

This is not the first time Charon has witnessed strangers approach Jinx, pleading their case or attempting to press their problems upon her shoulders. He wonders, sometimes, that she does not simply ignore them. But each time she listens, nodding thoughtfully and jotting details into her Pip-Boy as if she has not done this a dozen times over. As if each individual quest is _special_ , unique and important, and she promises to do her best. Her words chain her to deeds, and each time she willingly tightens her shackles.

So at first, Charon is not surprised when he completely ignores him, likely dismissing him as the ‘faithful ghoul manservant’ from the radio blasts.

“Er, uh, hold it right there, sister.” His hands are shaking, voice trembling as he stammers. “You’re giving me everything you own. Um. Now.”

Jinx just raises one eyebrow, eyes lighting up and her mouth twisting into that absolutely ridiculous grin that she uses when she thinks she’s being clever and charming but really it’s just a sign of how blatantly _trusting_ the girl can be, so before she can say a word, Charon sweeps his leg out, hooking behind the man’s ankle and gripping his shoulder, twisting down because the idiot mugger _really_ had not been watching, and the man is helpless on the ground with his wrist leveraged behind him and sobbing into the dirt, his shotgun dropped to the side, and if Charon just twists a bit, he can break his arm—

“Charon, _no_! He is unarmed!”

He laughs, a broken-glass sound at how wildly inappropriate her timing is. “Fine time for jokes.”

“No, I _mean_ it! That gun wasn’t even loaded!” She drops to her knees, eyes wild like caged birds. “Hey, hey! You can keep him down, but don’t _kill_ him! Geez!”

Another command issued without realization. Charon pauses, simply holding his position as the young man bawls, high and whining. It is the auditory equivalent of a pebble lodged in one’s shoe, almost lost beneath Jinx’s soothing words and gentle hands.

Awkwardly wiping away his tear and dirt-stained face, she soothes, “Hey, hey. My name’s Jinx, and who are you?”

“Dead meat,” the man moans.

Without missing a beat, she says, “Hello Dead Meat. Funny coincidence, my dog’s named Dogmeat.”

The traitorous dog _licks_ the man’s face, and Charon resists the urge to growl at the faithless canine.

“You’re not gonna kill me?”

“Nah.” She smiles, strange and sad. “You’re just another kid fucking up in a fucked up world. What’s your real name?” He can tell she is making an effort, her normal twitter slowed to a honeyed murmur, projecting more confidence than she ever actually feels. And despite calling him ‘kid,’ the would-be mugger has several years on her.

Predictably, he grasps for her kindness like a lifeline. “Mel.”

“Okay, Mel. Charon and I are gonna let you go, but you _have_ to make a better job of your life. I know it’s hard out here without family or a clan, but mugging strangers— _especially_ without bullets—is pretty stupid.” If this were anyone else, the words would sound strange and condescending, a page torn from some prewar book on morality. Even coming from _her_ it’s grating, and Charon grits his teeth at her little homily.

He thinks the secret is that she _cares_. She cares deep down, from her blood and her bone, and would rip out her still-beating heart if it would help another. She cares to the point that she blinds herself to the realization that she does not _have_ to help every soul that crosses her path.

She talks of Big Town—not a half-bad choice, in all honesty—and gives directions. Even gives the man a hunting rifle (“It’ll do better at a distance than that shotgun, anyway”) and a few bullets. Big Town isn’t established enough to turn away strangers who are willing to work and she helpfully recommends joining up with a caravan for safety or possible employment.

“Now, I’m going to ask Charon to let you up. Please don’t fire at us, or I think we will be forced to kill you,” she says apologetically, rising to her feet and slapping her palms together to clean them. At her nod, Charon also rises. Any creaking in his old joints is masked by the rustle of his armor, and he is grateful. Jinx may be the velvet glove, but he is the iron fist beneath.

“Th-thank you for letting me live,” Mel babbles, scrambling to his feet and starry-eyed with wonder. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna run now. Like, now. Real sorry.”

They watch him fade in the distance, and Charon’s chest burns. This went beyond altruism to sheer stupidity.

Quietly, so softly that he almost doesn’t catch it, Jinx murmurs, “Please don’t do that again.”

He asks ‘what’ in the tightening of his jaw, milky gaze on her face.

“Please don’t attack unless they are actually attempting to injure me, or if I give the command.”

It is poorly phrased, and he can already think of several combat scenarios where it will severely impact his effectiveness, _especially_ combined with her previous ill-phrased command not to protect her, so he opens his mouth in warning, feeling the words stir in his ruined throat. “Mistress—“

“Don’t call me that!” she insists. “I’m _Jinx_.”

‘Bad luck,’ ‘no good,’ a curse on all evil-doers who haunt the Wastes, but the name has never seemed more appropriate than now.

The name sticks in his throat, but he tries again. “Jinx, reconsider that command. I cannot—“

“He was just a _kid_.” Her eyes narrow, hands balled into fists by her side. She does that when upset, body tensed for a fight that she can’t possibly win, but she always restricts herself to words. Not that he has ever feared violence—if nothing else, she is a poor pugilist and physical altercation would void their contract—but she keeps herself too tightly restrained, her _want_ for a fight warring with her perceived _need_ to _not_ fight, because it shatters her sense of self and moral code. “He was—he reminded me of Wally. And Butch. And…” She gulps, eyes glassy as she hastily averts her gaze. “I don’t think there was malice in him. He just needs another chance.”

_And if that gun had been loaded, there would have BEEN no other chance for you_. But it not his place to say, nor can he shield her from her own wilful ignorance.

So with yet another restriction in place, they enter the depths of the Anchorage Memorial.

* * *

 

“Oh, _Charon_. Isn’t it amazing?” she whispers, staring upward in wonder. She sits in the center of the roof, knees hugged to her chest and half-leaning against Dogmeat. The heavens span above them, stars speckling the night like a jeweler’s fortune on dark velvet.

He sits beside her, cross-legged and back straight in unwilling compromise between his normal attentiveness and how forcibly casual his young employer is. There is an eternity in the gaps between stars, and he thinks of long-lost music, melodies he has not heard in centuries and which may never be heard again. An infinite yet infinitesimal separation in years and experience spanning between them. A gap she may never fully comprehend.

Finally, he says “Yes.”

“More gorgeous than any ballroom.” She sighs deeply, sinking into Dogmeat as if he is a stuffed toy. The dog simply flicks his ear, accustomed to her affections. Then, voice small even as her eyes reflect galaxies, she asks, “Do you mind if I dance?”

“No.”

Her gulp carries across the small silence of the night. “Good. I never—I never danced under starlight before. Never dreamed of a world so big when I was back in the vault. Never knew I could be so free…”

Despite the words, she does not _sound_ free. Her voice is pained, thick and moist as she blinks rapidly. Charon simply waits, knowing her as much by what she does _not_ say as what she does. It is far easier to read her unspoken fears and hesitancies once one ignores the glittering surface chatter.

“I thought about dancing naked on the roof,” she finally admits, cringing into herself even as she giggles. He hears the want in her voice, try as she might to hide it under the guise of an errant fancy. Too shy to ask for permission, too afraid—and afraid of what, when she has the freedom to go wherever she points her boots and the ammo to blaze past any obstacles in her way?

“Then do it,” he rasps, cutting to the heart of her fluttering plea.

She rocks back and forth, clutching her knees. “That’s not too much?”

A pause as he considers his best response. “Do what you wish. You have no obligation to anyone else.”

“That’s not true—“ she starts to argue, but he continues relentlessly.

“You always have a _choice_. And you can _choose_ as you wish.” He wonders if she can even understand how her capacity for choice surpasses his, and his lack of empathy for her self-imposed shackles. “Even inaction is a _choice_.” Carefully, not looking at her lest he spook her out of choosing freely, he states, “Dance naked under the stars. Or do not. I will not judge.” He could leave it at that, but he’s afraid her doubts will deafen her to the unspoken. So he rasps, “Others’ judgment will only impact you if you let them.”

More words than he has risked speaking before, going beyond the simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ of when she asks his opinion on some trivial matter.

Whatever her faults (and she does have many), she is not stupid. He feels the weight of her concentration, cool gaze sweeping across his face and over his silhouette, as if truly _looking_ at him for all the meanings and subtext locked away beneath those words.

“I choose.” A soft sound, cloth rustling on flesh, and her shirt lands in his lap. He does not flinch at the abrupt impact and hears her groan at his lack of reaction. Then leather sliding and metal unzipping, and he hears her light tread on the rooftop, Galaxy News Radio wafting from her Pip-Boy as she laughs, free and happy.

“I choose joy.”

* * *

 

“ _That’s_ Evergreen Mills,” she groans, crouching at the cliff edge and staring at the grimy figures walking the battered ramparts below.

Charon idly notes their numbers, the layout, and the caged super behemoth—and wonders why Jinx feels the need to state the obvious.

Biting her lip, she raises her laser rifle to her shoulder, taking her sights and breathing out long and slow. “Your shotgun—I know the range is bad, but we have that spare hunting rifle, so do you think you could…?” She frowns, dry lips cracking as she winces. “I mean, what is your opinion? On our odds, if we tried to take them down?”

“Not good.”

“But they’re _raiders_!” She turns to face him helplessly, eyes shining and lip trembling. “I can _see_ their captives in that pen there, and there’s just… so many of them. If I got some grenades, maybe a Chinese assault rifle, we could—“

He can read all the familiar tells, the way she is gearing herself up for another mercy mission that she claims she ‘has’ to despite having all the choices in the world. The way she desperately wants to make the world a better place, living up to Three Dog’s bombastic newscasts and trying to escape whatever hold her father still has on her.

But this nonsense will not help her.

“And we would both die, Jinx.” He almost said ‘and you would die,’ but she would think nothing of throwing her life away for a noble cause. His own, she seems to value beyond the cost of his caps. “And you are _still_ searching for your father,” he reminds her, the words bitter on his tongue. Much as she may love her father, he knows her hesitancies, the tremble in her lip and the caged fluttering of her heart when she dares to mention him. A father who abandoned her in an underground labyrinth of monsters and nightmares, yet still she calls his name.

“But I _have_ to destroy the Mills. I _have_ to—“

“You do not _have_ to do anything,” he growls, low and terse. “You have a _choice_ , Jinx.”

“But people will _suffer_. _Are_ suffering, because I’m letting this continue!” she snaps, but for all her bravado her eyes are wide and terrified, hands shaking so hard he knows she can’t possibly shoot straight even if she manages to wheedle herself into this suicidal assault. “I _have_ to do what’s right.”

“Then why didn’t you free Gob?” The words are cruel, torn from his throat before he even thinks.

She gapes at him, jaw hanging slack. He has the highly inappropriate urge to shut it for her. Finally, sniffling—and she _is_ sniffling, nose running and wiping the snot with one grungy sleeve—she mumbles, “Because I don’t know how. Because Moriarty controls so much more of Megaton than meets the eye. Because… because…” Her voice rises into a high wail, shoulders heaving as she huddles inward, muffling the sound against her chest. Even now, even wracked with guilt, she remembers their proximity to the raider camp. Charon would feel proud if he weren’t so exasperated with her selfishness.

“Because I’m _afraid_.”

“A choice,” he grits.

“I’m not _choosing_ to be afraid!”

His eyes narrow, but he approves of that flash of anger beneath her outburst. Good. If there is anger, it can be forged into strength. “But you are choosing to allow it to control you.” With deliberate nonchalance, he pulls out the hunting rifle. “We can snipe the raiders from here, if you like. I still say a full assault is ill-advised. But if pot-shots will soothe your conscience, we can do this much.”

“Then _let’s_.” It takes her a few minutes to regain her calm, eyes still shining and tears marking lines in the grit on her face. She breathes slow, in and out, before pulling the trigger.

They spend far longer at Evergreen Mills than Charon would have expected. Circling around the encampment, never staying in one position for more than fifteen, maybe twenty minutes at a time, they make slow work of the guards on patrol. Even when the raiders catch on, firing wildly at the cliff walls about them, there is little they can do against an enemy they cannot see. Perhaps their chems distort their sense of time, or perhaps they are simply victims of their own poor judgment and worse life choices, but the raiders fall back into an uneasy routine after a mere half hour, electing to stay holed up outside their fortress rather than go hunting.

At least they made a dent in the raiders’ patrol.

Hesitantly, face still blotchy and eyes begging, Jinx whispers, “Do you think if we tried to go in now, we could…?”

“Suicide mission,” he rasps.

She blanches, rocking back as if slapped. “Then… fine. Later. I will do this later.” Her eyes meet his and her mouth twists into a smile, sad and bitter. “And I _will_ free Gob. I promise.”

* * *

 

They finally find the hidden vault buried beneath Casey’s Garage, and Charon swallows the clawing in his throat, the machine that Jinx _willingly_ locks herself into, trusting to the simulation and simulations aren’t _real_ , you can’t _die_ in them, but the pain certainly is, and the training and…

Water off razors. Cool and crisp, sluicing over deadly edges and glittering intent. He pulls his mind away, sharp and clean, and brings himself back to the present.

Jinx is afraid, he can tell by the tremble in her lip and the way her eyes dart, even if she weren’t hooking herself to the monitors that record her erratic heart rate. She tries to smile though, mouthing ‘be brave’ even as the device closes about her and her eyes shut.

He does not know how time much time is passing for her in there. Time is a concept, not a constant in that artificial world of numbers and neural links. But by the clock on her Pip-Boy, it is forty-five minutes before the life signs on the other pods shut down. Shortly after, two pods open—Jinx’s and that of a stranger.

No, not a stranger—Charon recognizes the shape of the eyes, a certain wistful look about the edges. The same quiet assurance that Jinx has yet to fully master. Even before he greets her and she collapses against him, holding him tight and sobbing like a lost child.

But rather than comfort, she receives only disbelief. “Jennifer? Honey—not that I’m not glad to see you, but you should have stayed in the vault.”

Her arms go rigid, and she shoves herself away from him with a look of shocked betrayal. “Dad, the Overseer—they went mad down there. They were _killing people_ , Dad. They _shot_ at me,” she hisses, voice low and eyes luminous.

“Honey, I wanted you to be safe.” He smiles, false and soothing, but Charon watches his eyes. No movement. “The Wasteland is a dangerous place, and I thought you would be unprepared.”

“ _Then you should have taken me with you!_ ” she screams, echoing off the walls in a million shattered pieces. “I’m smart, I learn fast, I could have _helped_ you! With Project Purity, with this vault, with _everything_!”

“I have heard about you on the radio,” he admits, eyes soft and hesitant. “You have made me very proud.”

She stops cold, and Charon knows that hunger, that desperate need for validation as her lips tremble and her hands shake, but she continues anyway. “It’s not—dammit, Dad, it’s not about even making you _proud_ anymore.” Jinx—or is it Jennifer? But Jennifer is a stranger to Charon, perhaps as Jinx is to her father. “It’s about you giving a… giving a _shit_ about those you left behind, instead of traipsing off to go do the greater good. Did you even care about what happened back there?”

Charon watches, silent and impassive as they continue back and forth. Jinx rages and screams, but is too young and weak to hold her own against the man she still respects and calls ‘father.’ It is painful to watch, him weaving smooth words and soft explanations, soothing her ruffled feathers with practiced ease. Each sympathetic apology, each time he meets her eyes and calls her ‘honey,’ or ‘Jennifer,’ each _word_ tightens about her, iron bands pinning her wings. Trapping her back into her father’s child.

Trapping her back into doing what she _thinks_ she ought to do, rather than what she _feels_ is right.

And eventually, she agrees to go back with him to Rivet City.

Her father does not grant her the simple mercy of a father’s love—no quiet bonding, no private dinner for just a father and daughter— before, predictably, the shit hits the fan.

* * *

 

“Run!”

Of course, she doesn’t listen—she’s too busy beating her fists against the glass, screaming and sobbing as radiation consumes the chamber, her father collapsing before her eyes. She’s screaming, high and wild and lost, and Charon has to physically grab her to pull her aside.

“No, that’s my _dad_!” A blubbering wail, only pausing so she can gasp for breath. “I gotta—I gotta—“

“Jinx, he’s _dead_. And we have the living to watch out for.” He does not have a gift for soothing words, but at least her duty calls her back to rationality. She is tight and withdrawn, going through the motions with mechanical precision as they clear out feral ghouls and Enclave troops in the underground passage, leading Dr Li’s group to the Citadel.

There is no time to mourn her father’s passing, and none of the scientists offer to carve a quiet moment for her grief.

Charon wonders if perhaps his employer is also accustomed to being others’ tool, a trusted weapon capable of limited autonomy.

But her shackles are of her own making.

* * *

 

Jinx frantically paces outside the green-lit corridor as Fawkes' heavy footsteps recede in the distance. Dogmeat's hackles aren't up, so it's unlikely that more super mutants will be closing in, but Charon reads her conflict. She does not like sending others to do her dirty work for her, and he knows she must be missing the Mentat fizz.

"Charon, can you retrieve the GECK with him?" she asks nervously, shoulders practically vibrating with restless energy.

Charon's answering growl is succinct. "The contract entitles you to my services in combat. I’m nobody’s errand boy.

She blinks, mouth agape as she turns to face him, wheeling like a bird caught in a storm. "But... we are friends, I thought. It's not... for heaven's sake, it was not meant as an order!" Her face is a kaleidoscope of emotions; bewilderment, shock, anger, and yes, more than a bit of betrayal.

"You are my employer. All your commands are orders." Despite the gravity of the moment— how could someone so bright have taken so long to grasp the nature of their relationship?—there is a cold core of satisfaction in that statement. He can be pushed _this_ far, and no further, the contract marking the limits of her control over him. She cannot overrule this with another ill-conceived order.

"If all I am is your employer..." Her voice is weak, struggling for the words she normally fires like bullets from an assault rifle. "...if all I am is an employer, then you wouldn't care if I was a chem-head!" she exclaims, snapping her fingers with relief at the epiphany, as if she has _finally_ discovered an argument he can't refute and she has not been horribly mistaken all along about their relationship.

"I care for your effectiveness in battle. My employment includes defending you from yourself." When he can. When she’ll allow him. Because the world would be poorer for her presence, even if she values the life of a hired gun over her own.

Her body coils like a spring, and he wonders if she will finally attack, deciding that words are not near as satisfying as fists. He is an employee, not a punching bag. He could easily take a few hits before taking her to the ground. Her skill with a rifle would mean nothing once on the floor, her meager frame a disadvantage in a contest of brute strength even in their power suits.

Only Fawkes' return prevents him from finding out just what she intends to do.

"As promised, here’s the GECK. I hope it’s worth it," the super mutant adds hesitantly, returning to the tense tableau of girl and ghoul. "Well, I’m afraid this is where you and I part company." The words are obviously directed toward Jinx, not Charon. Excellent. If she would discharge him from her employment, at least there is another companion who will keep her from martyring herself against impossible odds. "I’ll find my way out of this place, don’t worry. Maybe we’ll meet again somewhere in the Wasteland," the mutant (or meta human, as he styles himself; Charon dislikes the grandiloquent term) adds, a note of hope obvious in his voice.

"You can’t come with me?" Jinx quickly asks. So predictable, so terrified of being alone again. Charon recognizes the girl in her more than the woman.

"I apologize, I’m afraid a super mutant wouldn’t be welcome in the places you frequent. All I’d do is cause you undue attention and probably get you killed." At least Fawkes sounds truly regretful. But Charon has witnessed Jinx making impossible demands, charming people into handing over secrets, caps, and weapons without a fuss. Given a little time, he is sure she can wrap even the green hulk about her little finger.

She does not get the chance to argue him into it though, as he lopes off through the empty tunnels of Vault 87.

Alone again. Just her, him, and the dog.

The GECK is heavy in her hands, and she turns it over thoughtfully, caressing the smooth surface. Wondering how much it has already cost, and how much more it may take from her. With a sigh, she puts it into her pack.

But she pauses, pulling out that contract—and again, he watches it, the pull more powerful than any magnet—and she swallows hard, the gulp echoing from beneath her helmet. “Or… maybe now. I just—we’ll hash out details later, but if something happens to me—I guess I should’ve made arrangements before, but if something happens to me, go back to Underworld.”

“And who would my next employer be?” It is hard to convey approval with what’s left of his voice, but his chest feels tight. Foolish as she may be, at least she is having the sense to finally start making arrangements lest his contract fall into others’ hands.

“Carol.” She extends that precious piece of paper, hands trembling just slightly—and he does not move to accept it, not until she whispers, “I know I can’t free you, but at least this way you’re carrying it. For… for safekeeping.”

He nods, fingers curling about the document and carefully laying it in one of the suit’s compartments.

"Charon, I... Let's get out of here," she mutters, barely above a whisper. "I never meant to... I really thought we were friends."

He will not lie to her. She deserves better than that. And there is no truth he can speak that won’t bite.

So Charon says nothing as they leave Vault 87.


End file.
